


The clock ticks from five to six

by velvetmornings



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetmornings/pseuds/velvetmornings
Summary: In a desperate attempt to contact Richie, Eddie makes the fatal mistake of saying he’s his husband to fast track the process. It backfires.“It’s your husband, he’s a bit distressed. He can’t seem to get a hold of you.” Maybe he had been mistaken for someone else—and yet she had called him Mr.Tozierand what were the odds of that?“What?” Richie says, he can’t really hide the surprise in his voice. If he had gotten married, no one had bothered to inform him. He reaches into his back pocket which he could’ve sworn hadn’t vibrated for hours.Eds:7 missed callsFuck.





	The clock ticks from five to six

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title is a Richard Siken quote, a surprise to absolutely no one.

1

“Sir, I’m really sorry but it appears Mr. Tozier can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters almost imperceptibly, knocking the receiver of his phone to his forehead. He was almost rocking in his anxiousness, the tips of his fingers trembling as he yanks the cord back down.

“Excuse me?” The receptionist says. She had a somewhat mousy voice. Young as far as Eddie could tell, and he tried to remind himself over and over again in his head that this wasn’t her fault and he shouldn’t take it out on her if he can help it. He’d succeeded so far he thinks. He’d been polite and patient—but his decency was starting to wear thin. He could almost hear the blood start to rush into his ears and an all-too-familiar tightness settle into his chest.

_Telephone etiquette. How does that go again?_

“Can you–can you try again?” Eddie asks, when he realizes he hasn’t spoken. “Can you try again please, Miss—”

“Morris,” she finishes.

“Miss Morris, yes,” Eddie repeats, forcing a smile and hoping it slips into his voice.

“Certainly,” Morris says on the other end, sounding somewhat pitiful. “One moment.”

Hold music.

The hold music comes back on and it’s “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys sounding like it was being played from underwater and recorded with a Nokia. Eddie has never understood the concept of hold music since it was intended to make the wait more appeasing for the caller at the other end, but the song always ended up sounding warbled and disjointed more disturbing than anything else.

His index fingernail taps against the phone as he waits, fiddling with the cord. He had called from the landline like it was the 90’s thinking it was safer somehow. He had been scared to use his cellphone every since he had read that news article about the radiation it gives off. After that, he had spent hours thinking about the nights he had spent sleeping soundly next to it as it radiated cancerous waves into his unknowing brain.

_You’re being ridiculous, Eds,_ Richie had said when he’d told him. Everything _gives you cancer. _

That certainly didn’t put his mind at ease but it did make him laugh. Richie could always make him laugh. And he certainly needed that right now—right NOW or he’s afraid he might go insane. He needs to hear his stupid, annoying voice and flood with relief and then he needs to punch him for making him so worried: square in the mouth.

Despite his protests, Eddie did notice Richie had stopped charging his phone on his nightstand and settled for leaving it plugged into the outlet next to the dresser, farther away from their bed as a result. Eddie never mentioned it afraid it might shatter whatever unspoken agreement they had partaken in. Whether it was to appease him or because Richie was afraid himself he didn’t know, but he supposed it didn’t matter now.

It didn’t matter if Richie was dead or worse.

2

Richie drags the second shot glass forward on the bar, but it catches on the sticky residue and he has to pry it off before raising to his lips. He’s going on and on to the bartender about the recent interview, but he can’t even seem to hear himself anymore. It may have partly been the alcohol washing over him, but he was so warm and fuzzy with relief he could cry. Just this morning he could remember being sick with nerves, dreading every moment leading to him walking on that stage, but now that it was finally over he could relax.

The bartender was saying something to him. He was young, not _that_ young, but certainly younger than Richie. The glint of naivety hadn’t fully left his green eyes yet.

“…What?” Richie asks, blubbering accidentally on his drink. He was drunker than he thought. Had he really only had two shots? He was in the hotel bar in the lobby, a dangerous thing but Richie supposed is meant to keep people from getting into drunken traffic accidents elsewhere.

“Is he nice?”

“Who? Jimmy? Splendid!” Richie says, slipping into a character that didn’t quite have a name yet. “Jim’s a _doll.”_

The bartender laughs and leaves to attend to another patron. He supposed that was signal enough that he should start heading up, a dull throb had begun to pulse in his head. He taps his hotel keycard once against the bar to make sure he still had it in his hands before leaving a tip.

As he makes his way through the vast expanse they called a lobby, a petite blonde woman from the front desk starts calling to him by name. She leans against the porcelain countertop.

“Mr. Tozier?” She says in a half-yell, half-whisper. She makes a come-hither motion with her fingers and points to the phone. “It’s for you.” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised he was recognized ashe was just on national television, but the rush of it he still hasn’t quite gotten used to.

As he approaches, Richie raises his eyebrow in question which prompts her to cover the mouthpiece with her hand. He can read the words _Patricia Morris _in gold lettering on her name tag.

“It’s your husband, he’s a bit distressed. He can’t seem to get a hold of you.” Maybe he had been mistaken for someone else—and yet she had called him Mr. _Tozier_ and what were the odds of that?

“What?” Richie says, he can’t really hide the surprise in his voice. If he had gotten married, no one had bothered to inform him. He reaches into his back pocket which he could’ve sworn hadn’t vibrated for hours.

> **_Eds:_ ** _7 missed calls_

_Fuck._

3

“Well hullo, dear! My dear, sweet _husband_. How are ya darlin’?” Richie says through the receiver, probably speaking much too loud as he rounds the counter since the wire hardly reached. He winks at Morris who gives him a confused look, other guests in the lobby had begun to stare. He was doing one of his voices but Eddie was so happy just to hear him _breathing_ that the tears welled up in his eyes like an automatic response. Like one might automatically sneeze when exposed to dust.

“Jesus, fuck Rich,” Eddie says. His voice is thick with snot and tears and he doesn’t bother to hide it.

“Eds…” A beat. The English voice was gone. “Is everything alright? What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s okay _now_, dickwad,” He says, laughing and sniffing at once. “I was worried about you.”

“Oohhhh, honey! You were _worried?_ About lil’ ol’ me?” Richie says, leaning on the countertop and cupping his face like a child. “I was just with my old pal, Jimmy Kimmel. Sharing shots and taking secrets… or is it the other way around?”

Eddie lets out a laugh in spite of himself and that eases the ache in Richie’s chest that had erupted there. He couldn’t afford being a cause of distress for Eddie if he could help it. God knows they’ve suffered enough. Richie pulls at the hem of his shirt and asks again, more tentatively this time when there’s a sniff at the other end.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Richie whispers, lips nearly making contact with the receiver. He’s suddenly so homesick he feels physically ill. He watches the phone’s red light flash steadily indicating a call on the other line, but at that moment Richie doesn’t care if it was the queen of England or Jesus himself, he wasn’t hanging up for anything.

“Positive,” Eddie says, and means it.

4

Richie buys a ticket for the red-eye. Sleep sweeps over him in warm waves, threatening to take him under in the airport chair waiting for his group to be called. The dull, lull of flight attendants and the like, droning off flight numbers echoing overhead. He had almost attempted to make his early return home a surprise—_almost_ but something in him told him it probably wasn’t wise to go another series of hours not responding to Eddie’s messages, only for him to fall into another bout of worry. Not that he didn’t find it _adorable_.

As kids, Eddie’s pesterings about Richie’s health and recklessness, Richie had always thought were zestless and uninspired. Just another avenue of which to annoy him with. Now, he realized it had reason. Their incessant bickering had an underlying of affection that was mutual.

Clammy fingers on his forehead, just a little too hard tug on his arm. _Rich, pleease don’t go in there. Think about the _bacteria_._ Richie looking up at Eddie’s face, so unexpectedly open and vulnerable—pure, unadulterated worry he would too late come to realize. And Richie’s inevitable response of,_ That’s why I have you, Dr. K. _

“I’m fine. I’m always gonna be fine, Eds,” he says now, after wrapping Eddie in a bear hug upon his arrival. His duffel bag and other luggage already long forgotten by the doorway.

“That’s not true,” Eddie retaliates, reminding him of his own mortality. But it doesn’t quite land because his words are muffled by Richie’s shirt.

“Haven’t you heard? They’re cloning me.”

Eddie lets out a sputtering laugh, “And why would anyone, clone _you_._” _From the windows beyond, Richie can tell the sky was just starting to give way to dawn.

“Sweetie, that’s not what you were saying when you were calling me your husband,” he says from above him, his chin resting on Eddie’s head. Sincerity was always difficult on his part even if it was also a soft rib.

“Right… that,” Eddie says, pulling back from the embrace, nervous hand on his neck, “I was hoping you’d forget about that.” Now it’s Richie’s turn to laugh.

“Not possible,” he says, shaking his head softly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Eddie feel _bad_ for the incident, especially when it was his own fault he’d forgotten he’d put his phone on mute.

“I don’t want you to come at for me that—it’s just that I was so _worried_ you didn’t answer your damn phone and you were miles and hours and a flight away I couldn’t help thinking that something bad had happened especially since it had been hours since the interview had aired and especially with what we’d—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Richie approaching him with outstretched hands, shushing him softly like he were still a child. He doesn’t pull away when Richie goes in for another hug which is a good sign.

“Hey, how about we make it so the next time you say that it isn’t a lie?” Richie says, after rocking back and forth with Eddie in his arms for several seconds. But his words come out in a stream, so fast it sounds like one word instead of many. He squeezes his eyes shut waiting for Eddie’s response, even though Eddie can’t see him—his face is pressed into Richie’s shoulder.

And then, very slowly, Eddie says, “What are you saying?” His cheek leaves Richie’s shirt and leaves an imprint as he pulls away, it reddens the hint of the scar on his cheek from darker days. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Richie face breaks into a grin so big it crinkles his eyes as he bends down on one knee.

“Eduardo Kaspbrak, will you marry me?”


End file.
